Salvation
by 22kisa22
Summary: Hermione Granger sat in the pub, a glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Her only salvation was the fogginess, the pure bliss, the blackouts, the freedom from the world. This was her salvation.


SALVATION

Hermione Granger sat in the pub, a glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Swishing the white liquid around a few times, she took it upon herself to finally down the shot, wincing as the alcohol burned her throat slightly. She slammed her glass down, motioning for the bartender to get her another. A puff of her cigarette, and then another. It had burned almost all the way down, the hot cherry shinning bright in the dimly lit room. She unconsciously rubbed her hand. A burn took up most of her small palm, a constant reminder of the world's cruelty. Snitches get stitches. That's what they had told her.

Another drink was set before her, gin this time. Her mind was going hazy, like it did most every night nowadays. Her only salvation was the fogginess, the pure bliss, the blackouts, the freedom from the world. This was her life now. This is what she had become.

She already knew that the world was not a good place. She knew how heartless people were. She knew that no matter how much goodness someone had, in the end it didn't matter. Life didn't matter. Hermione Granger was not the innocent young girl she had once been, content with reading books and learning whatever she could. No one could stay like that. At least, not if they were in any way sane. Innocence could never stay long, especially with the world how it is, and how it always will be.

She stopped at a dirty looking house, a grey van parked outside it, signaling that this was not a wizarding neighborhood. But she had not been to the magical world in a while, afraid to go back and face her fears. Afraid of what she would have to say, how she would have to act. Here, in this house, nothing mattered, nobody mattered. She didn't matter, they didn't matter, _no one_ gave a shit about anything. The stairs were small and narrow leading down to the basement, smoke slipping through the cracks in the bedroom door. They were all down there, the Muggles that she apparently was friends with. But how could she call anyone a true friend? No one knew what sacrifice was, what she had sacrificed merely for being _his_ friend. The mattress was hard, cigarette burns apparent against the white material. Someone handed her a pipe, and she gladly took it. Pulling a lighter out of her pocket, she lit the pipe, taking a fat hit. When she let out the smoke, it curled around her head, shapes forming and surrounding her. She passed it on, the drugs helping her forget, helping her feel the emptiness she always craved.

She thought about what she had to live for anymore. Why were people even alive? There was no point in anyone being alive; nothing we did would stick in any positive way. Nothing would make this world a better place. People just ruined the environment, so who the fuck gave a shit about if we were here or not. Sometimes she felt like when she died, she would go up to heaven and God would be waiting for her. And right before she entered the gates of Heaven, he would laugh at her. "You thought that was real? It was just a dream! Go do it again."

The war had changed her. It had changed everyone. No one was untouched, but she couldn't handle it like most could. So she figured out a way to handle it, drinking herself sick every day, getting high off whatever she could find, smoking packs of cigarettes a day, staying in the Muggle world. They had tried to contact her, to stay in touch. Those who had stayed, those who she used to call her friends. But who the fuck were they to tell her to visit them? To tell her that everything was ok? Well it wasn't and they were all liars. Liars and freaks who couldn't figure out when someone said no, when someone just wanted to be left alone.

She took another drag of the cigarette. She could hear faint talking around her, but her mind wouldn't zone in on whatever they were saying. Something about someone new coming. She couldn't really tell, nor did she really care. But then someone walked down the stairs. Someone who she couldn't imagine being there. Her mind rebelled; she closed her eyes, praying with all her heart that when she opened them, he would be gone. But he wasn't, and he was staring straight at her. "Hermione?" he whispered. She closed her eyes again, pulling her jacket around her and puffed harder on the cigarette. She stayed silent for a second, considering her next words. She blew out a cloud of smoke, simply saying, "Fuck off Malfoy."

He didn't leave her alone. But he was as broken as she was, she could see it in his eyes. The war had not left him unaffected either. The malice was gone, the burn of life had disappeared, replaced by emptiness in pools of grey sadness. The pain she saw in his eyes were mirrors of her own, and when he sat down, she wordlessly offered him her cigarette. He nodded, and she lit up another one for herself.

They sat there, two broken people next to each other. They took the pipe when offered, smoked the heroine when someone passed the foil. The only communication was the random "Do you need a light?"

Jake came up to her, trying to start a conversation. They had fucked once, and since then he had not left her alone. Annoyed, she narrowed her eyes and looked straight ahead, still puffing on her cigarette. She rummaged around in her purse, searching for yet another cig. Fuck. Only three left in her pack – she would have to make a stop at the store on the way back.

She got up, ready to leave. Her vision was blurred – she was seeing three of everything. The heroin had kicked in, and her legs felt like jelly as she tried to move across the room. The ground was suddenly right next to her as she fell forward. But instead of hitting the ground, two strong arms wrapped around her waist. "Be careful," Malfoy whispered in her ear. She nodded, trying not to see him as a ferret. Fuck the salvia was tripping her out. He was slowly turning into a white ferret, but instead of being small, he was his normal human size. She was shrinking, melting into the floor. And he was getting bigger. And whiter. "Turn back," she pleaded. He gave her a puzzled look. "Stop being a ferret!" she screamed. "Can you please just turn yourself the fuck back? I can't handle this right now."

He smirked, showing a little bit of the old Malfoy. "Granger, I haven't been a ferret since school. And since I assume you don't have your wand, I don't know how I would become one again."

That was how it started. They fucked that same night against the wall of her ratty apartment. The next time in her shower, the next in his apartment. She had been surprised to find that his lodgings weren't much better than her own. His were covered with dirty dishes, packs of cigarettes on every counter, an assortment of drugs on every table, much like hers.

They never screamed each other's names. They never mentioned magic or the war, or anything about their lives before this. It was an unmentioned rule. She had seen the scars crisscrossing his back. He had seen the gash going all the way to her stomach. She had seen "TRAITOR" branded on his chest. He had seen the word "SLUT" carved into her arm. They never explained.

Her world broke once again when the letter came. An owl had somehow managed to find a way into her apartment and sat there with a letter tied to its legs. When she opened the door, she slowly backed away. "What the fuck are you doing here?" she screamed at the bird. "I don't want you! Go Away!" the bird clicked its tongue, shaking off the letter and leaving.

She didn't move for the next few hours. On the floor smoking a cig, she couldn't will herself to move closer to the letter. It was as if the letter was on fire, and if she touched it she would burn with it until she was nothing but embers.

When Draco came over later that night with a few lines of coke, she still hadn't moved. He opened the door on her back, looking confused as hell. That is, until he saw the letter. It was written on parchment paper, with quill scratches marking it immediately as a letter from the wizarding world. He froze, and when he finally moved, he looked down at her. "You gonna open it?" She looked at him wordlessly, pain filling her eyes, then going blank. "Idunno." She answered truthfully, as she really did not want to open that poisonous piece of paper. She didn't want to know who it was from, or how they had found her. She didn't want to be reminded of everything she had lost.

Draco put the coke down, setting it up. "You want some?" She quirked an eyebrow. What kind of question was that? She sat down next to him and he took the straw, snorting the line and passing it to her. She popped an ecstasy pill before taking up the straw herself, but not until she lit the letter with a match, letting it burn until it was just ash.

She was so high she couldn't even remember her name. She couldn't remember who she was fucking, only that she was clinging to him like he was her anchor. The guttural sounds calmed her down, and she was cuming. But he didn't stop. Still going in and out. He brought her to the brink once again. They sat there, not moving. If someone had been looking, they would've thought it was that after sex glow. But she didn't get that. Sex was sex. It made her feel, if only for a second.

The man rolled off her. What was his name again? She tried to remember, touching his face as if the profile would give her a clue. It didn't, and she fell to sleep with him next to her.

She woke up a few hours later, mind groggy from lack of sleep. Rolling off the bed, she landed on the floor on all fours. The thump as a head hit the nightstand and the foul word that followed told her someone else had woken up. The man from last night. She pulled herself up so she could look at his face with a mind not affected by drugs. She didn't recognize him. He was an unknown entity, an unknown face. She didn't even know his name. But that was fine. Who the fuck cared anymore? Certainly not her.

Draco came over later. Again. It was becoming a habit. A bad one, she thought. Nobody should be allowed to care for her. Nobody should be allowed to be her friend. It was unhealthy for them. There he was with another pill. She looked at the indent – a green Mercedes. Good shit. Better than that blue fuck you she had had earlier. She didn't care that she had just popped a thizz pill two days ago. In fact, she would probably do it again tomorrow. And nobody was there to tell her otherwise. Nobody could tell her otherwise, even if they were there. It was her life and she would do what she wanted.

She lit a cigarette, waiting for the buzz from the ecstasy to kick in. And she thought about the world. She thought about what she had become. She thought about what it meant to be Hermione Granger. And she thought about what life meant; and what it didn't mean. And she knew what her next course of action would be.

He found her the next day. In the kitchen, wrists bleeding, the cigarette in the ashtray still burning, and a smile on her face. It was the only true smile he had seen on her face in a very long time. And he knew it was time.

An owl flew over London, a carefully written letter attached to its leg. It was the only word that Harry Potter would get of Hermione's death. Draco specifically forgot to tell him where she had been buried. He didn't deserve to know, for no one had known who she actually was. Not even himself.

Hermione's story was over. Her life slashed to pieces just like her body. She had given up. Draco thought about her as he stood on top of the bridge, staring at the water below. And then he jumped.

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